So Much Life Left Over

  ‘Well, it seems a shame to kill peacocks,’ she said feebly. ‘They’re so beautiful.’

  ‘So are pheasants. Peacocks are just the local pheasants. I’ve seen you eat pheasant. Gaskell used to bring them to The Grampians when she came back from the estate.’

  ‘Oh goodness, I’ve done a dreadful thing,’ said Rosie, beginning to cry, and wiping her face with the back of her sleeve. ‘I was so foul and horrible to him. Can’t you go after him and ask him to come back, and tell him how sorry I am?’

  ‘How little you know him. I’ll go after him and take him to Nuwara Eliya. I know he won’t come back. You say he threw his elephant gun over the hillside?’

  Rosie nodded. ‘And that silver cigarette lighter you gave him.’

  ‘That gun was absolutely his most prized possession. It cost him something like ninety pounds, for God’s sake. If we can find it in the morning I’ll have to get it repaired myself.’

  ‘It was absolutely massive,’ said Rosie. ‘I can’t believe it would be much damaged.’

  ‘It’s very easy to dent a barrel.’

  ‘Oh, Daniel, I’m so very sorry. Do you think he’d be able to walk to Nuwara Eliya?’

  ‘He’s a Frontier Scout,’ replied Daniel. ‘But all the same, I’m going to take the Henley and go after him.’

  ‘But it’s getting dark!’

  ‘Well, then. Even so. God knows when I’ll be back.’

  ‘I’m going to write him a letter,’ said Rosie, hanging her head. ‘With any luck I can get it to the hotel before he leaves for Trinco.’

  ‘You do that. But you’d better put Shompi to bed first.’

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  Daniel went to the hallway to retrieve his gauntlets and goggles, and returned to the terrace, where Rosie was sitting glumly, watching as the sun went down. ‘I used to have three brothers,’ he said fiercely, ‘and now I only have one. Two brothers lost to the Empire. Both killed in South Africa. My father is dead. Archie is the only brother I have left.’

  ‘What are you saying?’

  ‘You know how Archie adores you. If anything happens to him…if he’s prompted to…do anything…You know how little he values his life…Well…if anything happens, I’ll never forgive you. And neither will my mother.’

  ‘He wouldn’t, would he?’

  ‘He lives his whole life in the hope of losing it,’ said Daniel. ‘He’s always been disgusted with himself. I thought you knew that.’

  ‘Oh, darling, please don’t be so angry with me.’

  ‘I am damned bloody angry,’ he replied, and left.

  After the roar of the retreating Henley had faded into the darkness, Rosie knelt in the drawing room and tried to calm herself with prayer, but was immediately interrupted by Esther.

  ‘Uncle Archie did go and now Daddy’s gone,’ she said, with her thumb in her mouth and her first and second fingers crooked over her nose.

  ‘Yes, but Daddy’s coming back.’

  ‘Good,’ said Esther. ‘Can I faire dodo now? Can I have an histoire?’

  ‘Mummy’s no good at French,’ said Rosie. ‘In fact I seem to be rotten at lots of things. I’ll tell you one in English, if you don’t mind.’

  ‘Can I have “Le Petit Chaperon Rouge”?’

  4

  Poor Child

  Rosie’s waters broke just an hour after the midwife arrived from Nuwara Eliya in her rugged, beaten-up little Riley. Daniel and Rosie were delighted by the fortuitous good timing of it all, and the three of them sat on the terrace drinking tea, whilst Rosie, bright-eyed with both fear and excitement cradled her vast belly in her hands. ‘I really think I’ve got to walk about,’ she said.

  ‘Maybe you should jump up and down,’ said Daniel.

  ‘Oh, be quiet. It’s no laughing matter.’

  ‘Yes, I remember the last time.’

  ‘I hardly remember it at all,’ said Rosie. ‘It was just one terrible nightmare that was suddenly over, and there I was, weeping, with Esther wrapped up in my arms. Wasn’t she tiny? You forget so quickly.’

  ‘You were awfully weepy and low for the first few days,’ said Daniel.

  ‘That’s what usually happens,’ said the midwife. ‘But as this is your second, it shouldn’t be nearly so prolonged and painful. One can be grateful for that. The labour might be just five hours or so.’

  The midwife was a wide-hipped practical spinster in early middle age, with gunmetal hair organised into tight practical curls, who wore sensible shoes, and was armed with a black Gladstone bag. She had never given birth herself. Instead she had devoted her life to giving birth by proxy, and there was nothing she did not know about joy, suffering and tragedy. It had given her the kind of stoical outlook that accepts misfortune and smiles knowingly at good. She always liked to remind herself that man that is born of woman hath but a little time to live, and that every tiny creature she delivered was offered to life for a certain time only.

  ‘Where are you from?’ asked Daniel.

  ‘Oh, I’m from Dorset,’ she replied. ‘Dorchester.’ Her voice was cheerful and a little crackly, like someone who has been tippling on whisky.

  ‘It’s a lovely little place,’ said Daniel. ‘It reminds me of some of the towns in France.’

  ‘Every town reminds you of somewhere in France,’ said Rosie. ‘I’ve lost count of the number of times you’ve said, “Oh, this is just like Abbeville.” ’

  ‘Very true,’ he replied. ‘Apart from Colombo or Calcutta.’

  ‘You’re going to start labour in a minute,’ said the midwife. ‘I think I’ll go to the room and make sure that everything is in place.’

  ‘I’m certain it is,’ said Rosie. ‘The servants have been wonderful, and I’ve checked everything off on the list that you sent me.’

  Rosie’s labour commenced in the early evening, and she groaned suddenly. ‘Oh my, here we go,’ she said.

  ‘Anything I can do?’

  ‘Just let me hold your arm whilst I stagger about.’

  ‘Shouldn’t you be lying down?’

  ‘Absolutely not. I can’t think of anything worse.’

  ‘You’re going to miss supper.’

  She gave him a baleful glance. ‘I’m trying to get something out, not put more in.’

  ‘Well, when are you supposed to go and lie down?’

  ‘When I can’t stand or walk any more. And stop fussing. We’ve got a midwife for that. Can you fetch her from the kitchen?’

  ‘I do admire your courage,’ said Daniel.

  They walked round and round the terrace, Rosie flinching and crying out with every pang, ‘Oh God, oh God.’

  ‘It was hell last time,’ said Daniel. ‘You don’t know how horrible it is to be locked out whilst someone you love is apparently being tortured to death for hours.’

  ‘I am full of sympathy,’ gasped Rosie.

  ‘If it’s a boy,’ said Daniel, ‘would you like us to call him Ashbridge? I’m just wondering. I mean he was my friend too. I wouldn’t mind, I really wouldn’t.’

  ‘It’s a girl,’ said Rosie, ‘I’m sure of it.’

  ‘Ashbridgette doesn’t sound too good, does it?’

  ‘There’s nothing wrong with Bridget.’

  ‘Brigitte is even better.’

  ‘Let’s just wait and see what she’s like.’

  ‘Yes, of course. Do you think Esther will be all right, staying with Hugh?’

  ‘Well, I wouldn’t want her here, listening to me screaming and swearing.’

  ‘Do you really intend to swear? You didn’t last time.’

  ‘I’m going to be cursing you at the top of my lungs.’

  ‘I’m man enough to take it. You can apologise when you’ve cooled down, in a year or two.’

  ‘I think it’s comi
ng.’

  As Daniel escorted Rosie to their bedroom, they were surprised to find all four of the servants lined up in a row against the wall of the corridor. One by one they held out a hand to be shaken, smiling broadly and saying ‘Good luck, missy’ and giving a little bow.

  ‘Oh gosh, they’re so sweet,’ said Rosie as she lay down on the bed; ‘I could almost cry.’

  ‘I fear they may have a long night.’

  The child arrived at half past two in the morning. Just as the last time, Daniel paced up and down, sat with his head in his hands, raided the whisky bottle, and cringed with sympathy every time that Rosie yelled. It reminded him of pulling broken airmen out of the wreckage of their aircraft. The servants took turns to bring him sustenance, saying, ‘Master need more tea, master need more tea, master need mutton chop, master need snack.’

  ‘Thank you, but I really don’t,’ Daniel would say, accepting the offerings anyway, before resuming his striding about.

  Preethi, Esther’s ayah, came out of the kitchen and smiled at him. Her huge brown eyes seemed to sparkle with the pleasure of anticipation. ‘Oh, how she lives up to her name!’ thought Daniel, as he did every time he saw her.

  ‘If master go out, baby come quicker,’ she said.

  ‘Go out?’

  ‘Yes, master go out for walk, baby come. Always happens. Missy crying more often now.’

  ‘A long walk?’

  ‘Just factory and back, maybe two, maybe three times. Maybe down to village, come back up.’

  ‘I might have to anyway. Otherwise I’ll go mad.’

  ‘Missy very strong, very brave,’ said Preethi. ‘Master not to worry.’ She went to the hall stand, and presented him with his hat.

  There was a light rain when Daniel went out, and it was extremely dark. He waited a few minutes for his eyes to adjust, and then set off for the factory. Once there he sat on a crate, and soon realised that the water was soaking through to his skin. He walked round the factory perimeter, and then further down the road to the bungalow where Hugh lived with his wife. All the lights were off, so he stood outside the window of the room where he thought Esther might be sleeping.

  ‘Sleep well, my little darling,’ he said softly, and then turned on his heel and returned to Taprobane.

  Five minutes before he returned, the midwife delivered the child, took one look at it, wrapped it hastily in a towel, and ran to the bathroom, leaving Rosie both exhausted and bewildered, her hair knotted with sweat, the afterbirth slipping out unattended.

  Sensing movement, Daniel put his head round the door, and beheld the midwife, stock-still, standing back from the basin. ‘I’m so very sorry,’ she said.

  Daniel came in and looked at the child in the basin as, beneath its caul of blood and slime, its body began to turn from crimson to blue. The face was very beautiful, its tiny mouth turned up at the ends as if it were suppressing a smile. It was a boy.

  ‘Don’t look too much, sir,’ said the midwife; ‘you don’t want to be having nightmares.’

  But Daniel looked anyway. He had seen many horrors during the war, but he had never realised that such a thing as this might be possible. ‘Oh God in heaven,’ he said, his eyes welling up.

  ‘I’m going to go and tend to Mrs Pitt,’ said the midwife.

  ‘You do that,’ said Daniel.

  He took a sponge and washed the dead child clean, and then wrapped it in a towel and took it out onto the terrace. He sat down in one of the wicker chairs and hugged it to his shoulder. ‘Oh Christ, oh Christ,’ he said, rocking with the grief of it. ‘You poor little mite.’ Although it was dead, it smelled as a baby should, warm and sweet.

  The ayah came out, and stood in front of him. Daniel said, ‘Preethi, the child is dead.’

  She put her hands to her face and ran indoors. Soon he heard all the servants wailing together in the kitchen, so he stood up and carried the child into them.

  ‘Please stop,’ he said, speaking in Tamil. ‘Think of missy. Go to bed, all of you.’

  The servants scurried out, wiping their eyes and glancing at the dead baby’s face as they passed, each one saying, ‘So sorry, master, so sorry.’ Preethi was last, and as she left she kissed the tips of her fingers and touched them to the child’s forehead. ‘God bless,’ she said.

  ‘Thank you,’ said Daniel. ‘Goodnight.’

  As he stood alone in the kitchen with the baby wrapped up in his arms, the midwife entered, saying, ‘Oh, there you are.’ She tried to take the dead child from him, but he grasped it more tightly. ‘But, sir,’ she said.

  ‘It’s my child.’

  ‘So it is, sir, but what are we going to do about Mrs Pitt?’

  ‘What do you normally do?’

  ‘You tell them straight away that it’s dead, and then they’re so exhausted that they fall asleep anyway. And then you tell them why in the morning when they wake up. It might be better, sir, if I take it away and she doesn’t have to see it. It’s what one normally does.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Honestly, sir, it is better if they don’t.’

  ‘I know my wife very much better than you do. She was a nurse in the war, and there’s almost nothing she hasn’t seen. She’ll need to see for herself or she’ll never come to terms with it.’

  ‘I’m sorry, sir, but you’re quite wrong about this –’

  ‘Am I employing you or are you employing me?’

  ‘Well,’ she said crossly, ‘you may have it your way, and regret it at your leisure.’

  ‘I suggest that we see if my wife is asleep, and then go to bed ourselves. I’ll keep the child.’

  Daniel slept that night with his dead child wrapped up in a towel beside him in the bed. His dreams were vivid and terrifying, and when he awoke in the morning to see that it was still raining outside, it was a moment before he remembered the stiff little bundle that had slept so deeply next to him. He shaved and dressed, and then went to see Rosie, who was sitting up in bed with the midwife holding her hand.

  Daniel bent down and kissed his wife on the cheek, saying, ‘Do you know?’

  She nodded dumbly and bit her lips, looking at him piteously with her large blue eyes.

  ‘Do you know why?’

  ‘I told her it’s better not to know,’ said the midwife, looking up at him, ‘but she’s very obstinate.’

  ‘I want to see him. All of him.’

  ‘It’s not pretty,’ said Daniel.

  ‘I don’t care,’ said Rosie. ‘He’s my child.’

  Daniel went back to his room and returned with the baby, laying it before her on the bed.

  Rosie unwrapped it hastily, paused, then said, ‘I see.’

  The child’s dark brown liver and kidneys, its yellow intestines, all of its internal organs lay on the outer surface of the abdomen, protected by nothing but a thick white, translucent membrane.

  ‘It’s called an omphalocele,’ said the midwife. ‘I’ve only ever seen it once before in my life, and it wasn’t nearly as extreme as this. They tried to operate but it died of peritonitis. I don’t think this one’s even got a stomach cavity. This must be the worst it can possibly be.’

  5

  The Reverend Williams

  Daniel stalled his machine outside the church by pulling out the choke, and lifted his goggles onto his forehead. He dismounted and walked through the lychgate, trying to shake off the stiffness of having been riding for so long.

  Holy Trinity Church, of Nuwara Eliya, sat on the hillside facing across the valley to the terraced slopes opposite. It had a small external belfry with a single bell. The building was rendered and painted in cream, with a corrugated-iron roof, and had chunky buttresses whose sole function was to announce to the world that this was a place of worship rather than a bungalow. By the road outside there was a stand of eucalyptus, and in the large gravey
ard, an enormous monkey puzzle tree. The yard itself was awash with ochre-coloured day lilies that gave it a bright and happy appearance, and two gardeners were clipping at the grass around the tombs. Daniel wished them a good morning, and they smiled and bobbed in delight, replying, ‘Morning, master. Morning, master.’

  He walked around the church until he found the one door that had been left unlocked, and went inside. Rows of pews were set across the rough-hewn, gappy floorboards, and a small harmonium served the place of an organ. The walls were hung with brass and marble memorials, and Daniel read them, one after the other. They only increased his melancholy.

  He looked at the curved rafters of the nave, and then at the stained-glass windows above the altar. They seemed both sombre and Pre-Raphaelite, and too small, as if Rossetti had been obliged to come to a compromise with another artist of impeccable Victorian respectability.

  Daniel knelt before the altar rail and began to pray, but soon gave up. He had long felt envious of Rosie’s ability to find consolation in her personal conversations with God, but whenever he tried it himself he had the ineluctable sensation of speaking to no one, across a void. He could sense the Deity only in His extreme absence.

  He stood up, and said, ‘I don’t think You’re really much concerned, are You?’

  He returned to the door, and went back out into a light rain that reminded him of home. Nuwara Eliya was often called ‘Little England’. He took another lychgate through into the garden of the vicarage, a bungalow with the inevitable metal roof, and a lovely croquet lawn whose hoops had been freshly aspinalled.

  The Reverend J. L. Williams, Anglican vicar of Nuwara Eliya, was aroused from his napping on the terrace by his wife, who came in and shook his shoulder, saying, ‘Darling, there’s someone here who wants to see you urgently.’

  ‘Oh drat,’ said the clergyman wearily, sitting up in his reclining chair. ‘Send him in then. And can you fetch Fernando? We’ve got a monkey in the garden again. Damned nuisance.’